


Virtues

by TheCourtIsInSession



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Just a lot of fluff basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-10 03:40:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20128759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCourtIsInSession/pseuds/TheCourtIsInSession
Summary: They've spent their lives racking up sins, one after another.It's time for change.It was meant to be a one-shot but then I went and made another chapter. Fluff and comfort Baptiste/Widowmaker. Set after Baptiste joins Overwatch and they rescue her from Talon and begin rehabilitating her.





	1. Patience

She’s sweeter with him.

Sort of.

He’d like to think so, anyway, since he doesn’t have the same horror stories the others do when they come off shift from watching her.

Dr. Ziegler says Amelie hadn’t spoken a word to her since they’d detained her.

Genji says she threw the glass of water in his face when he’d asked one too many times for her to drink it.

Lucio returned to the medbay after his shift with a particularly tender bruise he said he didn’t want to talk about.

Fareeha says she had to twist Amelie’s arm behind her back when she lunged at her, and kept the handcuffs on until the next person’s shift.

“Horror stories.”

But Baptiste? Baptiste hasn’t had a story like that.

Not yet, at least.

He has the decency to knock on the door before he enters, tray in his free hand as he twists the knob.

“Mornin’.” He says, passing by where she sits. The chair by the window. She’s always, _ always _ there, never on the bed, never on the couch, never even at the desk with books and a laptop - one Winston had set up a number of limits and firewalls and what-have-you’s on.

She just wanted to be alone. He got that. Talon was a thing that messed somebody up, in ways the others didn’t quite get. Dr. Ziegler, Reinhardt, Lucio, Torbjorn… They were always the good guys. No question, no doubt, no further thought needed.

But _ them? _

He and Amelie were the bad guys. "Were" being the key word there. _They_ were the ones killing innocents, getting blackmailed, convincing themselves day in and day out that this was their only choice, their only option.

She’d had it worse than him, though, and he was never gonna argue that. 

Who knew what the Talon scientists had done to her head. He certainly didn't, and he likes to think he's a pretty good medic, even if his psych training could stand for a refresher course. He'd have to speak with Dr. Ziegler about it.

“Shimadas whipped up some… Miso? I think that’s what it is. Smells good, and I’m pretty sure it won’t kill you.” Baptiste is talking more to himself than to her. “Who knows, though. The grumpy one might’ve dumped rubbing alcohol in it if he was in a bad mood.” 

She doesn’t laugh at the joke.

He doesn’t mind.

He takes his place on the couch, reclining back as he turns on the TV, setting it to mute as he always does, in case the sound bothers her. Truth be told, she’d never said anything about it, but he figured… He figured if she was _ forced _ to be in here with company at all hours, that company should damned well be courteous.

The plot of whatever half-baked cop drama he’s watching (he doesn’t really know why he is, he _ hates _ those things) is just teetering off into unwatchable when he hears her move from the seat at the window. The socks on her feet ensure she makes no noise as she steps towards him, and settles on the other end of the couch. Legs drawn up to her chest.

He ignores the urge to look at her when she says, “Channel 62 has some documentaries.” There isn’t any emotion in her voice, raspy and exhausted as it is. He flips through the menu until he runs across “62,” and presses “okay.”

He taps the volume up button twice, just so there’s a little background noise. When he glances at her out of the corner of his eye, she’s staring at the screen, gaze intent.

It’s about spiders. Because _ of course _ it is. Something about orb-weavers. He doesn’t really know much about spiders other than how to administer antivenin, and that if you trap them under a glass, they’re harmless.

Which, funnily enough, is about as much as he knows about Amelie. And he does mean _ Amelie _, because Widowmaker is gone. The gradually-returning color in the woman’s cheeks is proof enough that, whatever weapon Talon had made her, it isn’t who she is now.

Though maybe she’s not Amelie LaCroix, famous ballet dancer, either. He doubts she could go back to that life after the years she’s spent as an assassin. Just as much as he doubts he could ever settle down and work at a clinic.

“I don’t care for spiders.” She says.

It’s the most she’s talked to him, to be honest. Usually the most he can get out of her is a terse “thank you” when he brings her those hard candies she only ever eats when no one is watching.

He purses his lips and shrugs. “They’re not so bad. Keep bugs out of the house.”

She doesn’t reply. 

They keep watching TV.

He dozes off, half-conscious with one of the most dangerous ex-Talon operatives in the world seated just an arm’s-length away.

He snaps awake when he feels something brush up against his arm.

When he glances, careful to never look at her directly, lest she shy away, she’s curled up next to him, just close enough for their arms to touch, not quite enough to call it “cuddling.”

It’s cozy, though. And it’s nice when she leans against him, just a bit.

He dozes off again, until someone knocks on the door and tells him his shift is up. Reinhardt, calling out about how he was here to relieve him of duty. He looks around and sees Amelie sat by the window, in the exact same position she always sits. Half of him wants to say he was dreaming when she sat next to him, but the TV is quietly playing, and the bowl of _ probably _-miso soup is empty.

“See you tomorrow.” He says, waving at her as he leaves, taking the tray and dirty dining ware with him.

She doesn’t turn.

And she doesn’t turn when he says good morning to her the next day either, but she does end up sitting with him, watching documentaries again.

And she does it again the day after.

And the day after that.

And she does it for the whole rest of that month, too.

He never says anything about how she’s making great progress, always makes sure not to look directly at her, always only says “Mornin’,” and “See you tomorrow,” unless she says something first. Always lets her take the first step, go at her own pace. Never pushes, never prods. 

And slowly, she thaws.


	2. Humility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's never been particularly proud of himself, per se.  
But she was.  
In another life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said it was a one-shot, but what if I wrote another chapter anyway?

Sit and watch.

That’s all she really did. 

Sit.

And watch.

Usually, her steady amber gaze fell on the waves outside, below the rocky cliffs and the fluffy clouds. Ships and fishing boats littered the water more often these days, since Overwatch had gone public again. Winston said he was working with some “contacts” to smooth out the legal issues, and convince the world governments that  _ yes _ , Overwatch was necessary again, and  _ no _ , they were not going to make the same mistakes the old Overwatch had.

For now, it meant there was more for her to look at than the TV.

They’d put Baptiste in charge of her, for the most part. She didn’t glare at him like she would the others, and sometimes she’d even start conversations with him of her own accord. It was… oddly domestic, if he were being honest.

The radio on the balcony is tuned to a channel of her choosing. She tends to set it to the one that plays only classical music, no breaks, no interruptions, just soft melodies and moving crescendos. Every now and again she’ll turn it to the latin channel he has a soft spot for, and he swears he can spot a soft look on her face when he starts humming or dancing along to it.

Now is one of those times. He’s busying himself with going through some of the documents they’d ripped from Talon, since he knew the codes and encryptions they used.

Or, at least, he knew a few of them and he was in contact with  _ Sombra _ who knew them by heart. Thank God she’d decided she liked him back when he was still with Talon, or else the big shots probably would’ve had his head on a pike by now. What was it about him that seemed to draw dangerous people in like moths to a flame?

Doesn’t matter.

Because right now, he’s humming along to the upbeat tune, brows furrowed and lips pursed as he skims over line after line of information on the holotapes covering the counter. Hips move along to the beat, though he’s admittedly a  _ bit _ off-tune, since his attention is directed elsewhere. She hasn’t talked yet today, but she’s eaten everything he’s brought her. She’s steadily regaining a bit of weight, getting healthier.

“Unrefined.”

Focus shattered, he looks up to her. Those unflinching eyes are fixed on him.

“...You uh, you wanna run that by me again?”

“Your dance. It is unrefined. Sloppy. You were not professionally trained and it shows.” She was always simple, straightforward. Sarcastic, sometimes, but overall she didn’t beat around the bush. He admits he is a  _ tiny _ bit hurt at the… insinuation? The insinuation that his dancing isn’t quite as good as he’d like to imagine. He forces down his pride, something he’s grown too good at.

One of his eyebrows raises, a smile playing at the edges of his lips. “Oh? Well, maybe you could teach me a thing or two.” It’s an offer. Normally, he would brush off anyone who distracted him from work with an apology and a promise of “later,” which usually meant “never.” But with her, it was different. With her, he had to let her take the lead and decide when things were happening. He may have been her caretaker and “warden” of sorts, but she was the one choosing when things not related to, you know,  _ eating  _ and  _ bathing _ and all those little things happened.

She doesn’t move a single muscle, expression stone-stiff as she ponders his invitation.

There’s more grace in the simple, everyday action of her rising from her seat than he’d ever shown in his life. Her movements carried a certain confidence she lacked otherwise, a level of pride she had in nothing else. A carry-over from her past life, her  _ first _ life, as Amelie LaCroix, accomplished ballerina. 

She steps towards him, each footfall even, timed, precise. Thin fingers reach for his. It occurs to him, somewhere in the back of his head, that this is the first time she’s ever touched him while he was fully conscious. 

Her instructions are as firm and to-the-point as everything else she does. She’s teaching him steps, not full moves. Instructing him in the weight he puts down on each foot, and where he puts it.

He’s never really thought about the way he moves in any real depth before, but he kind of feels like an oaf next to her effortless elegance now that he is. Every action, from her limbs to her facial features, is carefully calculated, but decisive. The way he fumbles with the basic steps she’s demonstrating, whereas she runs through them with finesse, makes him look clumsier than he is.

Clumsier than  _ he _ thinks he is.

When he trips again, he hears a sharp little exhale from her. It’s not harsh enough to be a scoff, but it’s not quite light enough to be a laugh. When he looks back up from his feet, there’s crinkling at the corners of her eyes, twitching in her lips.

Closest she’s gotten to smiling. 

_ Cute _ , he thinks, directing his gaze back down to his feet as she continues correcting his postures. Light little touches of her hands, daintier after months of not handling a rifle or a grappling hook. Less callused. More fitting for an artist.

This is the fluffiest feeling he’s ever gotten for swallowing his pride. 

He’d have to do it more often around her.

For her.


End file.
